


Lies

by Iolre



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence, M/M, M/M/M, Multi, Other, Polyamory, Present Tense, Self-Hatred, Sherlock is a liar, Sherlock is so broken
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-18 11:46:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1427311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iolre/pseuds/Iolre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock tells so many lies that he does not know where one stops and the next one begins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lies

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my [prompt blog](http://minorsherlockprompts.tumblr.com), based on this prompt:
> 
> 'Could you do Johnlockstrade, please? Just to the prompt word, 'lies'? Thank you. :)'

Sherlock tells so many lies that he does not know where one stops and the next one begins. It is a habit, for him, born of necessity instead of spite or desire. He does not lie because he wants to. He lies because he has to. Because everything will change if, just once, he tells the truth. His life will fall apart, and he will be left alone.

He does not anticipate what happens, when he falls into bed with Lestrade, the first time. The way Lestrade - Greg, he learned later - looks at him. The way he is so gentle when he touches Sherlock. He cares so much that it nearly oozes out of his pores. Sometimes, Sherlock curls close to him, tucks his head into the crook of Greg’s neck, and imagines that some of Greg’s goodness will stick to him, and stop him from lying again. He knows that will never happen, but still, he hopes.

It changes, what he lies about. The chemicals aren’t poisonous. He’s never killed anyone. He is not a danger to himself, or to others. The lies flow easily off his tongue, as he has told them many times before. He lies about who he is. Where he’s been, where he came from. It is not hard, lying. Many times, it is the rest of humanity that makes assumptions that Sherlock does not bother to correct.

Greg asks to see him again. Sherlock says yes, and that is not a lie. Sometimes Sherlock tells the truth, when he thinks something doesn’t matter. Sometimes the truth is what is convenient, what will make someone do what he wants. The line between truth and lie is so blurred that he often cannot tell the difference. He measures the outcome, not the process.

Sherlock lies, and Greg stays. Sherlock can curl up with him, in bed, and pretend his life is not a lie. That he is not claiming to be someone who he is not. Feeling emotions he does not have. Greg knows that Sherlock can’t feel, and he does not expect anything from him. It is oddly freeing, and he does not know what to make of it, so he stores the emotion away with all of the others, locked up where it cannot bother him.

He tells Greg that he loves him, sees his expression change, become warm, and hears the words in return. Later, he leaves Greg’s flat, and walks until he is chilled to the bone. He does not know what love means, just that it makes people happy. If someone is happy, they will stay, and he does not have to worry about being left alone again. Besides, maybe he really does love Greg. Sherlock doesn’t know, and doesn’t care to find out. That would be opening a box of many things best left untouched.

Sherlock doesn’t know why people are so attached to words. To him, they are meaningless tools. A word means nothing. “I love you”, means nothing. To him, it is the actions that matter. What one says is nothing compared to what they do. He goes to a crime scene, and ignores the words, instead focusing on the actions. What happened, instead of why.

He draws comfort from his deductions, and hones them often. Crime scenes cannot lie, not like people, and they can’t hurt him. He does not have to lie to make them like him. They are inanimate. They do not know him, and cannot hate him for who he is. He keeps the skull, from a case, and places it on the mantel, in 221B. When he is home, and the lies become too much, he talks to it. It sits there, with its gristly grin, and listens. Somehow, Sherlock always feels lighter after talking to it. He names it Billy, after who he should have been, and calls it his friend.

Two two one B Baker Street is expensive, so Sherlock tries flatmates. First, he tries Greg, which does not work. Greg has gone back to his wife, and Sherlock does not see him anymore, not off of crime scenes. It does not bother him. He thinks it should, but instead uses it as ammunition against himself. High-functioning sociopath. He does not feel because he cannot feel. It is something wrong with him.

He lies and tells Greg he misses him. That he wishes he had him again. In a way, he does. There was some small amount of comfort that Sherlock only could get next to him. A biological imperative, the rush of oxytocin. Not love, not desire. Biology. It is easier to classify Greg that way. Easier to break him down into his pieces, his components, and ignore the fact he is a person who loved Sherlock. Past tense, Sherlock thinks. He is unlovable.

His next roommate is not much better. Sherlock throws him out for daring to lie to him, and lying badly. The only mistruths he tolerates are his own, or ones he cannot read on other people. The third and fourth lie better, but one tries to touch him, and the other cannot stand the way Sherlock keeps the kitchen. Between roommates, he is alone, but not alone. He can sit for hours and talk to the skull. It is his only friend. Part of him wonders why he is still lying. He knows it is because he cannot stop.

Sherlock goes to Barts sometimes, to get access to equipment that he cannot have at home. He is there when Mike introduces him to an old colleague. John Watson. Sherlock reads him in a moment, sees the picture of his life, and for a moment, he is hopeful. Maybe John will like him. Maybe he does not need to lie.

That thought is quickly discarded. He always needs to lie. No one will ever like him, not otherwise. Even Mrs. Hudson only sees a side of him. She sees what she wants to see. As he takes John to 221B, and hugs her, he is acting, and his act is a lie. He is showing the best part of him, what he wants the world to see. The part of him that John will like. That normal people like.

He blames it on the adrenaline rush after a case, when he and John tumble into bed. John is similar to Greg, but different. He is smaller, more compact, and determined to take Sherlock to pieces. Greg was sweet and tender, but he had mercy. John does not. He works Sherlock until Sherlock cannot speak, and all he can do is look at John and shudder and moan and hate himself for what he has to do, all the lies he has to tell. John would not like him if he knew the truth, so Sherlock resolves never to tell him.

John is tougher than Greg. Sometimes Sherlock thinks if he lies enough he will find John’s breaking point, and see him crumble. John thinks Sherlock is unbreakable. Sherlock knows he is not. Everyone can be broken. Even John, who stands so tall and strong, is broken in his own way. He lies, just like Sherlock does, except he does not hide that they are lies. His tells are in the way he smiles, the way his body moves. It is fascinating, to Sherlock.

Greg leaves his wife, eventually, and it is John who deduces that Sherlock has a past with him, despite Sherlock telling him there is no history. It is oddly thrilling, having one of his lies discovered. It is a game, in a way. Like a chess match. John has made his move, now it is Sherlock’s turn. He thinks, for a few days, before he suggests bringing Greg to bed with them. John is startled, and embarrassed, but eventually agrees.

Sherlock does not know why it is important to him to have both of them. Neither of them would stay, if they knew the truth. Knew how much of Sherlock was an utter fabrication. It is getting more difficult to juggle all the lies. He has to get better, to keep John from reading him. He has to hide things.

So he pretends the chemicals are not explosive. That there’s not a risk that one misstep in his experiment could blow up 221B and could kill them all. Part of him hopes that he does make a mistake. He does not particularly want to kill the others. He likes them. But he will not mind if he died. Dead people cannot lie. It will all be over, that way, and he will not have to worry. Death is the ultimate ending.

He is almost disappointed when the experiment goes smoothly. When the chemicals are removed, and he is left to move on. John is simply glad that the mess is gone, and as he and Greg relax on the sofa, Sherlock marvels at how close they were to death without knowing. He stops thinking when Greg pulls him onto the sofa, and he ends up between them.

Sherlock lays on the sofa, his head in Greg’s lap, his calves and feet on John. The doctor has his hand on Sherlock’s ankle, and is rubbing gently, the motion soothing, but for some reason it makes Sherlock feel claustrophobic. Greg’s hand plays with his curls, and Sherlock struggles to breathe. It is like all the lies are clammering to get out, like they are surrounding him, mocking him. Like all the good that is happening is not his, but belongs to a semblance of him, something that does not exist.

He stands abruptly, and can feel both John and Greg’s concern, but he ignores them and grabs his coat, tossing it on over his pyjamas and heading out the door. Everything is too close and too much and he simply cannot handle it. He knows, when he returns, that they will want to talk about it. Communicate. Both men had stressed such a thing before. It is the foundation for relationships. Sherlock has never been a good communicator. All communication means is more lies, and he is so tired. He does not know what is true, not anymore.

So for a while, he stays away. He sleeps in drug dens, shabby hostels, and occasionally hotels of all price ranges. Money he has in plenty, but it does not matter to him. Part of him hopes that John will be gone from 221B when he returns. That he won’t have to see Greg again. Face either of them. He could find work elsewhere. Mycroft offers to set him up somewhere new, find someone else that will tolerate him. Sherlock could reinvent himself. It is tempting, and Sherlock almost says yes.

He thinks about what it would be like, never seeing John or Greg again. He lays on the hotel bed and stares at the ceiling and hurts,and he does not know why. It feels like he is going to be sick, like the world is wrong, and when he tells Mycroft no he is struck with such a wave of relief that he barely makes it to the loo before he is violently ill.

It is a month later before Sherlock steps up the stairs to 221B. John and Greg are at work, and Mrs. Hudson is away. It is quiet and he is alone, except for the skull, and that is the way he wants it. He picks it up off the mantle and sits down in his armchair, and stares at it, studying it. It is his oldest friend, his only friend. The only one that knows the truth.

He knows Greg and John will come home, that they will want to touch him and hug him, but there will be anger, and hurt. That is how he has seen people react to their friends, in the past, when they have been gone. That is what books say, at least. But Greg and John are different. He can’t anticipate exactly what they will do, and that thought makes him nervous. So he waits.

His arms are wrapped around the skull and he is dozing curled up with it when he hears the door open and something - keys? clatter to the floor. There are startled noises, inhales, whispers, and then there are hands on him. He does not like it, doesn’t like how close they are, not when he knows he will soon lose them both. Instead he buries his head in his arms, presses his cheek against the skull, and shakes his head until they stop.

He feels like he is going to be sick. Like the entire world is weighing him down. All the lies have finally become too much, and he cannot handle it. After a moment, a mug of tea is pressed into his hand, and he lifts his head, sees Greg and John settle onto the sofa. They are both watching him, their eyes concerned, and it makes Sherlock’s stomach lurch unpleasantly. They are so trusting, so caring, and he has betrayed them both.

It takes a minute before he is able to start, and he knows once he starts, he will not be able to stop. So he starts from the beginning. The first time he lied, to Victor on the playground, and Victor invited him to play. Sherlock had never had a friend before. It required more lies, until Sherlock kept a small notebook with all of them written down so he could study them. How that grew into more lies to more people, and for a while, he had friends.

He tells them all the lies he told as he grew up, both big and little. He spares nothing. He has to tell them everything, or he feels like he will explode. When he tells them that he does not love them, because he cannot feel, he cannot bear to look at them, for he is afraid of what he will see on their faces. He talks about how words mean nothing, and gets distracted on a tangent about how useless words are.

He talks about how he did not want to lie, but he did, because he knows that now they know the truth, they will leave him and he will be alone. He talks about the experiments, and how he knew they could kill them, and is briefly interrupted by swear words from both men. Sherlock does not roll his eyes, even if he wants to. He knows everyone faces their deaths in their own way. Mortality does not bother him the way it bothers others.

Finally he is out of words, and he is exhausted, the mug of now-cold tea in his hand too heavy of a weight to bear. He does not want to drop it. He just feels empty, now, and he shifts, placing the mug on the floor before he wraps himself back around the skull. It is warmed by his body heat, and he presses his cheek to it to comfort himself. He is waiting for the noise of them moving, of them leaving. Maybe John would go upstairs to pack, maybe Greg with him, but they would both do it.

He flinches when a hand touches his shoulder, and he grips the skull a bit tighter. It is John’s hand, he can tell by the pressure and the texture. Greg touches him next, hand moving from his shoulder to the back of his neck, and they just stand there. John is the first to utter a word, and all he asks is why.

Later, John tells Sherlock that he regrets ever asking, because he never wants to see that pained expression on Sherlock’s face again.

Neither of them are leaving, and Sherlock does not know what to do, so he does nothing. That is safest, he thinks. Eventually, they start talking, and Sherlock listens. He does not listen to all of the words - words are boring - but he listens to the tone, figures out what it means, and examines whether it matches the words. He can feel that Greg is hurt, is shattered, and John is barely holding it together. He is angry and scared. Sherlock is confused. They are still there. They should not be.

He does not realize that he says this out loud until John and Greg look at each other and then back at him. Greg says it first, that he still wants to make it work. John nods his agreement, and Sherlock lifts his head to stare at them both. It does not make any sense, and Sherlock tells them as much. John smiles, but it is a sad smile, and it makes Sherlock want to kiss it off his face. He is not sure why.

John suggests going to bed, since it is late and they are tired. Sherlock nods slightly, and waits for them to leave. He is surprised when John and Greg gently lift him off the armchair, and John puts Billy back on his mantel. “Come with us?” John asks. Sherlock nods, says yes, and it is the truth.

It feels funny, telling the truth. Like there are little butterflies flying about in his stomach. It feels like a weight has been lifted off him, and part of him is giddy with relief. At the same time, there is a weight there, and he feels doomed, like it is just a matter of time before they leave. “Trust us,” Greg murmurs, as he and John carefully remove Sherlock’s clothes and then their own.

Sherlock does. He does not trust himself, never himself. But he does trust them.

It is an unusually warm night, and John strips the duvet off the bed, leaving just the thinner sheet. With body heat the three of them will be fine in the bed, Sherlock calculates. John lifts the sheet and nudges Sherlock forward, indicating that he should crawl underneath. He does, and quickly lays down and closes his eyes. It is such a large bed to inhabit all alone, but he figures he will get used to it.

Then Greg is crawling in one side, and John the other, and Sherlock is no longer alone. He does not know what to make of this, so he shuts his eyes and wishes it all away. Greg settles behind him, and Sherlock is tucked against him, his back to Greg’s chest. He is grateful for the inability to see Greg’s face. John curls against Sherlock, his head just low enough that Sherlock can open his eyes without being forced to look at John.

They do not talk, and Sherlock realizes that they listened to everything he said. Instead, he feels, and listens to their actions. The way John tucks himself closer, nuzzles Sherlock’s skin, his body pleasantly warm against him. The way Greg feels so right behind him, an arm wrapped possessively about both John and Sherlock, the way Greg kisses Sherlock’s neck and then his mop of curls. The way John has his arm over them both, how he wants them both.

Neither of them say ‘I love you’, but Sherlock can read it in the way they move. He does not realize he is crying until his pillow is wet underneath him and he feels like he is choking on emotion. Everything he shoved away, everything he ignored, it is all swamping him and he cannot cope. John and Greg move closer, reassure him, hold him, until it finally seeps away.

This time, he does not feel empty. He feels warm, too warm, and wishes he could shackle John and Greg so that they cannot leave him. But he does not, because they have asked him to trust them, and he agreed. It will not be easy, he thinks, telling the truth, but it is all he has left. It is all they ask, and finally, it is something he can give.

He tangles one hand with Greg’s and wraps his other arm around John, so that he can hold onto them both. Sherlock breathes in, breathes out, trusting, and falls asleep.


End file.
